


Cold Hands, Warm Heart

by wtfkovah



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Disturbing Themes, Fluff and Humor, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:01:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28935207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfkovah/pseuds/wtfkovah
Summary: Don't take it personally...but he needs to eat.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 17
Kudos: 153





	Cold Hands, Warm Heart

**Author's Note:**

> RE-UPLOAD

****

**Then**

****Jihoon shares an unhappy look with Seungcheol, then turns back to the television screen.

The camera pans out, slowly, revealing splashes of dried blood on the street, smears of viscera along the walls and trails of gore in the doorways. All of the windows on one side of the building are smashed too, a shine of broken glass and splinters of wood on the ground.

_‘The population of this town numbered over 12000. Now all that remains are the handful of survivors that sought refuge in a school basement when the air raids started. The authorities are still working on a cure, but military action such as this is being sanctioned all over the country to quell the infected.’_

The journalist on screen continues to ramble on about the descriptive gore on a horribly massive scale: whole populations drowning under a wave of slaughter; whole cities eating themselves; a government too eager to stop the spread and resorting to genocide.

And it's still hardly making a difference.

Outbreaks are cropping up daily now, each new one harder to put down than the last. There seems to be no indication where the infection will spread next either because people aren't just rising from their graves anymore, they're rising everywhere and it's only going to get worse.

Jihoon shakes his head, because he can't believe it, he doesn't want to believe it. Hearing how bad things were getting is one thing, but seeing it for himself, the slow _creep_ of it...

It’s terrifying.

 _"- remain in your homes,”_ The news anchor says, face dour _“do not attempt to reach loved ones outside the city, do not attempt to travel. If you have a medical emergency -"_

Seungcheol makes a rough noise of irritation, then reaches over and flips the TV off.

Just as Jihoon’s opening his mouth to ask Seungcheol what he thinks they should do, Seungcheol stands from the couch with rigid determination.

“C-cheol?” Jihoon stammers in surprise.

Seungcheol’s already got his boots on, and he's heading for the airing cupboard which _means_ —

"Where are you going?”

Seungcheol stops mid stride and turns to face him. His expression is very, very serious. “Work.”

Jihoon stares at him in stunned disbelief. “Are you _kidding_ me? Were we watching the same thing unfold on TV? You can’t go to work now!”

Seungcheol keeps glancing at the dark TV screen and then away from it. His jaw is tense, teeth locked together, and with that worried crease between his eyebrows. Not anger, just fretfulness and frustrated control. “Jihoon—look what’s happening outside. It’s chaos. Everyone’s running wild, people are panicking and looting. It’s my job to maintain order, I can’t just sit here and let this—”

“Yes, you _can_!” Jihoon interrupts heatedly. “You can just wait it out like everyone else is. You heard the guy on TV—we should remain indoors.”

“How can you expect me to just wait it out after everything you've just seen in the news. These things are getting closer Jihoon, they're not just going to turn back once they reach Seoul. That town is less than 50 miles away, soon they'll be in our doorstep. I have to go help. My colleagues are out there fighting. My _friends_.” Seungcheol says, eyes, intense and unwavering.

“That’s _their_ choice. You can make a choice too.” Jihoon tells him desperately.

“I _am_ making one.” Seungcheol counters sharply. He turns his back on Jihoon as if the argument isn't worth having, and starts rooting through his gathered supplies.

“You think you’re doing the noble thing here, but you’re _not_. This is suicide. You should stay here—it's too dangerous.” Jihoon pleads, following Seungcheol around the apartment like a stray cat as the man attempts to collect odds and ends: watch, badge, phone, gun.

“If every cop stood back because things were too dangerous, things would be a lot worse than they are.” Seungcheol replies, pausing at one point to grip Jihoon’s biceps and kiss his brow. “I have a job Hoonie, I have a _duty_.”

“And what about me?!” Jihoon asks, sounding more than a little broken.

“Don’t you get it!” Seungcheol says, haltingly. He spins to face Jihoon and his eyes are viciously angry, sparkling bright, but at the same time sad. A muscle in his jaw works, jumping and receding. “I'm doing this for you. I’m doing this so there is a future for us to have.”

* * *

****

**Now**

Jihoon stares into his beer.

It's a bad idea, drinking when he's got to be up early for work tomorrow morning, but it helps him blend into the surroundings and, moreover, helps him go through with what he needs to do later.

He scans the room for what feels like the hundredth time, and tries hard to suppress the petulant inner voice saying _I don't want any of them_.

He _never_ wants any of them—but that’s not the point. It's not why he’s here tonight.

In profile, the guy sitting a few barstools away from him is decent looking, actually. Handsome enough, in a sterilized, over-moneyed sort of way. Body long and flattered in his well-fitted suit.

He'd be reasonably within the limits of Jihoon's type, if Jihoon had a type at the moment beyond _alive and reasonably drunk_. Which doesn't mean he shouldn't be careful; Jihoon's learned the hard way to be careful about who he picks up.

He has a checklist in his head for the kind of guy he’s comfortable about bringing home and sticks to it: single, lonely men with no dependants, and preferably non-military. It helps if they’re also complete and utter _jerks_ , but Jihoon’s also learned not to be too picky.

After a few minutes of eyeing each other quietly, Jihoon picks up his glass and moves to take the stool next to the man.

"Come here often?" he says, voice sliding into the deeper, hypnotic registers of flirty.

He can see the guy's pupils dilate with interest, until there's barely a hint of blue iris left in his eyes. He's licking his lips unconsciously, which Jihoon deliberately emulates.

It's a cheap tactic, but it works.

Jihoon's nothing if not pragmatic.

* * *

****

**Then**

Seungcheol’s been gone for 76 hours and counting. It’s the worst 76 hours of Jihoon’s life.

He is too nervous to sit still, so he paces the length of the apartment over and over in the same line, occasionally pausing to glance at various clocks to see what time it is. He bites his nails, an old habit he long ago conquered. Briefly, he considers opening a bottle of wine, but then decides against it. If Seungcheol needs him, he wants to have his faculties sharp. 

A loud bang rings outside and Jihoon runs to the balcony, throwing the doors open.

The noise was too loud to be gunfire, but soon a plume of black smoke rises in the distance.

Something must have exploded.

As Jihoon stands on the balcony, a police vehicle zips up the main express outside the apartment block. It doesn’t stop outside, just whizzes by, sirens blaring, but growing fainter as it disappears over the horizon — towards the Officetels and the tall towers of public housing apartments. 

When he pulls out Seungcheol’s binoculars from storage, he can see where the police vehicle stops, officers jumping out and sprinting after people, clubbing them, sometimes pulling out their revolvers and—

 _Jesus_.

Jihoon sets the binoculars down and slowly backs away into the apartment, eyes wide with terror. He locks the balcony doors, but that doesn't keep out the incessant sound of the sirens.

He doesn't know what to do.

For the first time in years, he is completely, utterly alone.

When the sun is low in the sky, his cell phone suddenly buzzes across the living room coffee table, and Jihoon practically dives to answer it. "Yes? Hello?" he gasps, not even bothering to check who's calling. He's desperate for any kind of outside communication.

"Jihoon? It's Jeonghan."

"Oh my God. Hannie! Please, what's going on? There are explosions outside, and Seungcheol left to help hours ago and he hasn't returned. Do you know—"

"Shut up and listen for a second," Jeonghan interrupts, sounding every bit as overwhelmed as Jihoon, which terrifies him into silence. If Jeonghan is freaking out, it means whatever is happening outside is really bad.

"I can’t speak for long—Gimpo airport’s been overrun, we’re waiting to be evacuated. I don’t know _where_ they’re taking us, but they’re making us all strip down before we’re declared safe for transport.”

The line crackles sharply with static, interference of some kind. The static breaks a moment later and there is a long breath of silence, before Jeonghan continues more urgently.

“If you see someone lying on the ground, injured, bleeding— _do not_ help them. Do not try and help them, Jihoon. Are you listening to me? They’re not safe, okay. That’s how this thing is spreading so fast—when they _bite_ —"

The line crackles again, cutting Jeonghan off.

Jihoon stands frozen in place, staring at a wall, waiting for more.

There's a sharp intake of breath and then an earful of Jeonghan swearing. “Oh shit—shit. They’re inside!”

Jeonghan’s voice is too high, winded, and in the background Jihoon can hear screaming, a rush of heavy footfalls and the _whap-whap_ of suppressed gunfire. There is a long pause, filled with the sounds of the screaming, an ominous bang, and a muffled sound like fingers fumbling to find the disconnect button, before there is a click and then nothing at all.

Jihoon stares at the phone. He cannot move, can barely breath, cannot find what is necessary for motion or functional thought. He collapses onto the couch, numb from shock.

There's another explosion outside and Jihoon covers his ears, hunched over on the couch. He can't breathe, and now he understands why. He's having a panic attack, but there’s no one here to save him. There's _no one_ to save him. Tears flow freely down his face as he uses every ounce of mental power to focus on sucking enough oxygen into his lungs so he won't pass out.

All he can think about are the friends he’ll never see again. All he can see is Seungcheol’s smiling face before he left. 

* * *

The next hour is a haze.

Jihoon tries to turn on the news to see what's going on, but every station is broadcasting an emergency alert, informing people to seek shelter inside their homes. The radio stations still operating don’t offer much comfort either, just a bunch of evangelists preaching the End of Days and how all humanity was going to burn in Hell.

The power’s still on, which is something. But there’s no saying how long it will stay on—

Suddenly, there’s a thump on the front door, loud enough to make Jihoon jump and curse.

When the initial shock wears off, he mutes the TV, holds his breath and listens for more.

There’s nothing for a long moment, then Jihoon hears the scrape of a nails against wood, and something that sounds like glass crunching under foot. He has enough good sense or survival instinct to keep quiet, even when the door frame shakes with a heavy thud and a low groaning noise second later.

It’s just one of those undead things, he decides, stumbling around in the corridors.

He can even guess who it might be. 1404, the apartment directly across the hallway from his, is home to a thin, mousy guy about Jihoon's age. He can’t remember the guy’s name, but he’d gotten really sick about a week ago and Seungcheol had kindly offered to take him to the hospital. That plan had been derailed when every hospital in the city went into lockdown mode, and the man had voluntarily quarantined himself in his apartment.

He must have got out somehow, though all evidence had suggested these _things_ can’t open doors.

_But they can break them down._

An anxious fear plugs up his veins and half-crushes his lungs. Shaking despite himself, Jihoon pulls himself up from the couch and crosses the room, the soft 'pat-pat' of his bare feet on the floorboards seeming shockingly loud. 

The groaning is louder now, more intent. Like whatever it is prowling outside can hear him moving, can maybe even _smell_ him.

Jihoon contemplates the idea of running to the bathroom and locking himself inside—but before he can move, there’s sickening _thud_ and the drawn-out moan comes to an abrupt halt.

The silence that follows is more unnerving than it has any right to be.

Jihoon’s hands tighten into fists as he stands there, frozen, gaze locked on the door.

He half expects it to cave in at any moment, to be surrounded and to scream futilely as he’s torn to shreds—so he’s completely unprepared for the quiet knock that comes a moment later.

“Jihoon—it’s me baby. Open up.”

“Cheol!” Jihoon’s voice breaks with a barely constrained joy.

He practically sprints across the room to yank the door open and Seungcheol is _there_ , covered in blood and gore and standing over the dead body of their neighbour. He has his gun out, Jihoon sees, but after a quick glance up and down the hallway he puts it away again.

“Not a good time to run out of bullets.” Seungcheol cringes, staring down at the body of their neighbour, head misshapen by force. “Had to bash his head in. Poor guy.” He mutters, horrified and sympathetic all at once.

Jihoon, frankly, doesn’t give a shit about their neighbour. _Yes_ , _yes_ , it’s a terrible way to die, but he’s still too busy taking in the sight of Seungcheol, _alive_ , hovering on their doorstep like he’s not sure Jihoon will let him in. 

Had he been anyone else, Jihoon wouldn’t dream of it.

Seungcheol looks _terrible_ , uniform in tatters and saturated with blood, with haggard circles under his eyes and a barely healed cut slicing across his cheek. His knuckles are so badly bruised that Jihoon can see the purple from six feet away.

They stand there for another moment, taut and still, and then they move for each other in a rush of delayed instinct. Jihoon buries his face against Seungcheol’s throat, clutches his fingers into the wet folds of his shirt, and now that he’s touching him Jihoon can feel him trembling. He’s warm and real along his front, solid and reassuring, and Jihoon wraps his arms around his neck and draws him in tight. Seungcheol hisses, the sound pained and sharp. Jihoon draws his hands away, but when he tries to step back to get a better look at him, Seungcheol just holds onto him even more tightly. 

“Don’t let go,” he begs. “ _Please_.”

“If you’re hurt, I have to see to it,” Jihoon answers, although he subsides in his efforts to actually look and settles for raising his hands to touch Seungcheol more cautiously this time.

He gets one arm around his waist without incident, but his other hand—questing gently and carefully—finds torn fabric and a slickness that could easily be blood just above Seungcheol’s right shoulder blade. He feels Seungcheol flinch at his touch, and he obediently lifts his hand from the wound to cup the back of his neck instead.

“You son of a bitch, I thought you were dead! Don’t ever do that to me again!”

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” Seungcheol says, running his hands over Jihoon’s face, down his back.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he presses Jihoon against the wall, runs his fingers through Jihoon's hair and kisses him, hard and claiming. He’s covered in inhuman gore and his embrace makes it hard to breathe, but Jihoon doesn’t care. He just wraps his arms around Seungcheol’s neck and clings right back, opens his mouth for the greedy thrust of Seungcheol’s tongue.

Jihoon had always laughed at the scenes in movies where the lovers took a moment to make-out during an epic disaster of apocalyptic proportions. Always thought ‘What a stupid thing to make time for when the world is collapsing around you’—but he gets it now. _He fucking gets it._

Seungcheol finally, reluctantly, breaks the kiss to murmur against his lips, “Fuck, Jihoonie, I was so fucking worried you’d done something stupid and gone outside.”

“You mean like what _you_ did?” Jihoon says firmly between kisses.

Seungcheol lets out a quiet puff of air and presses his face into Jihoon’s neck. From this angle Jihoon can see there’s blood splashed up his neck and cheek, too bright and real to be zombie gore. 

“Cheol—” Jihoon gasps, moving a hand down to his neck. “Jesus—you _are_ injured.”

“It’s just a bite, on my shoulder. One of those fuckers—” Seungcheol pauses to grit his teeth as Jihoon pulls the collar back to look and it sticks, tacky with blood. “They’re slow, but they’re relentless. Had to empty my whole clip into one just to get him to stop moving.”

Jihoon drags him over to the couch by the sleeve of his jacket and coaxes him to sit so he can get a better look at his wounds. The bite mark on his shoulder seems to be the one bothering him the most, so after Jihoon helps him out of his boots, he rushes to the kitchen to fetch some supplies.

He comes back with his first aid kit, a cup of water, and a stack of washcloths, already damp. He hands the glass to Seungcheol, cups his elbow as he takes a long pull from the glass. “What’s happening out there?”

Seungcheol sets his teeth.

"It’s chaos. They’re everywhere, everywhere you look. We didn't have the manpower to do much more than thin the numbers down." He nods his head at the balcony door, where the white doors are shut tight. “We’ve set up roadblocks around the city, but two of them were overrun last night and a lot of them got in. We had to pull back a few blocks—but we lost so many people.”

Jihoon listens to him talk, reaching down to take the corner of his unzipped jacket, easing his hand across laterally to find the first point of contact with his bloodied back. From what he can feel, the wound’s not deep, but the way Seungcheol jacket _sticks_ to his skin suggests it bled profusely.

Jihoon gets to work, methodically wetting Seungcheol’s wound to help free the lining of his jacket from the dry blood. Once removed, Jihoon shifts to kneel behind him and starts wiping off the worst of the dirt and grime.

He can feel the feverish heat of Seungcheol through his exposed, wet skin and wonders if he always runs this hot. He looks too pale to be running this kind of fever.

“Well?” Seungcheol says, obviously waiting for him to say something. He sounds like he’s coming from far away.

Jihoon dabs some antiseptic over the skin. “It’s not that deep actually.” He says, unable to draw his eyes away from the indent of teeth on Seungcheol’s shoulder.

When he finally lifts his gaze, he finds Seungcheol staring at him over his shoulder. And Seungcheol is _fucking grinning_ , soft and fond and ridiculously happy.

Jihoon could kill him.

“How dare you fucking smile at me like that. None of this is funny Seungcheol! We’re living in an honest to god zombie apocalypse.” Jihoon says incredulously, glaring.

“I’m just so happy you’re okay.” Seungcheol says. He looks away, trying for a contrite smile, and falling short, “I was worried I would never see you again.”

Jihoon sighs heavily, eyes dropping closed. “Promise—promise me you don’t do that again.”

“Do what,” Seungcheol says, not even able to muster the energy for a properly questioning inflection.

Jihoon puts his hands at the back of Seungcheol’s neck, pressing the flats of his fingernails into the skin there in a gentle squeeze. 

“Don’t _leave_. Don’t leave me alone again.”

The pause is longer this time.

“I won’t, Jihoon. I’m not going anywhere.” Seungcheol says eventually, and there's iron certainty in his voice. A promise. Or enough of one to quell the creeping horror that wants to claw its way up the back of Jihoon’s throat.

Jihoon rests his forehead against Seungcheol’s back and breathes into the silence for a long minute, Seungcheol makes no attempt to move away.

Their quiet moment is interrupted by an explosion sounding outside.

They both snap their heads in the direction of the balcony, and although the lead in Jihoon’s stomach tells him he doesn’t want to know, he can’t resist sprinting to the balcony to check. 

Throwing open the doors, Jihoon staggers to a halt when he sees what's happening out in the distance. The Cyton Biosciences building downtown is on fire and most of the sky is coated in a faint grey haze. Burning cars pepper the main expressway, and most people have abandoned their vehicles and are running down the street.

Grabbing the binoculars again, Jihoon quickly zooms in on the action.

The front of the building's a mess; broken windows, a scatter of lights on, and there's fire licking over where a bus has crashed through the front entrance. Jihoon suspects someone did that on purpose, because there's a mess of bodies there, some charred, some crushed under the wheels, some in pieces in the collapsed wall.

He thinks he can see one twitching ever so slightly.

“Look—” Seungcheol says, appearing at his side. He points at something far away, and Jihoon follows the trajectory through the binoculars.

In the distance, way out on the horizon, a tank rolls into view.

“Military.” Seungcheol says fiercely.

There isn't a whole lot of good feeling in his voice.

* * *

****

**Now**

It's not a long walk to Jihoon’s apartment, but he suggests they take a taxi anyway.

 _Anything_ to get them there faster.

He's already had to practically drag the man’s overly comfortable hand out of his pants twice tonight, and the rest of the taxi journey is spent trying to creatively side-step the warm, insistent mouth trying to make contact with his. 

Thankfully, the man doesn’t seem to mind the lack of reciprocation on Jihoon’s part. If anything, it just makes him more eager. So it’s no surprise that Jihoon finds himself pressed up against the wall of his apartment the second the door closes behind them.

The man sucks his neck hard, leaving a mark. “You’re so fucking gorgeous.” He whispers into Jihoon’s ear.

Jihoon shudders.

“How about we relocate to the bedroom?” He offers, trying for flirty. His heart like a snare in his chest beating to a tempo that sounds like _be calm be calm be calm_ , and failing utterly miserably. 

“Or we could just get the party started here.” The man murmurs, moving down Jihoon’s neck to lay a wet kiss over his collarbone.

Jihoon grimaces and side-steps out from under the man’s grip, angling for the bedroom, “We’ll be much more comfortable in the bedroom. Besides, my housemate kind of gets annoyed when I bring guys home.”

The man’s disappointed frown lasts all of five seconds, then he’s shrugging his shoulders and following Jihoon down the corridor.

* * *

****

**Then**

“Jihoon, just listen to me.”

“No—” Jihoon snaps, slamming the kitchen cupboard shut. He hasn’t finished putting the dishes away yet, but slamming things shut seems to be the only thing that gets Seungcheol to stop _talking about it._ “We’re done discussing this. You’re not going.”

“I _have_ to.” says Seungcheol, quiet frustration weighing his voice.

Jihoon rounds on him then, anger boiling over, “You don’t have to do shit!”

But Seungcheol’s not even holding the defensive stance he normally would when they fight. He looks tired and defeated, and worse than that, he looks heartbroken.

Jihoon can't breathe beneath the weight of that look. He can't bear to see Seungcheol like this. He sighs, and forces his anger back down. He has to work at it, he really has to fucking work.

“You didn’t have to go out there in the first place Seungcheol, but you did.” Jihoon says, can't help but say. He knows it's wrong, knows it sounds too much like an accusation. Because his heart's still beating fast enough to make it tight, almost angry. “You promised you wouldn’t leave me again, you fucking _promised_.”

“I know I did, I _know_ —” Seungcheol murmurs in a dry, bruised tone of voice. “But this is different, things have changed.”

Jihoon's heart lurches, and he answers without hesitation, “That doesn’t mean you can break that promise Cheol! You can’t leave me here alone—”

“I’m dying Jihoon!” Seungcheol’s voice is so sharp it actually seems to cut its way into Jihoon's head.

Seungcheol's eyes are so pale they look white, pupils tiny, and his skin's the colour of chalk. He's practically folded over the counter, too exhausted to hold himself up without its help. His wrists and fingers look so sharply thin that Jihoon swears he could outline all the veins. He knows Seungcheol didn't look this bad yesterday. And he knows he’ll probably look even worse tomorrow, and the day after that. And after that.

In a few days Seungcheol will drop down dead, then he’ll get back up again.

And then, he’ll—

“I’m dying,” Seungcheol repeats, voice quieter and painfully hoarse. “I’m infected. You heard the news—you’ve seen what happens.” He whispers. From the look on his face, he has a whole lot worse he could say on the subject.

“You don’t have to go. We’ll _think_ of something.” Jihoon says, forcing the words from a throat that feels three sizes too small.

“Think of _what_?” Seungcheol chokes out helplessly. “I’m gonna get sicker, and _sicker_ —I’m gonna—” He breathes out a long, pained sigh. “I’m gonna _turn_ Jihoonie, I’ll become one of those things. I don’t want you to see that. I don’t want to hurt you. I _need_ to hand myself in.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

The tap in the sink drips, overlaying the soft rasp of Seungcheol's breathing and the thrum of Jihoon's heartbeat.

Finally, Jihoon croaks, “They’re going to kill you Seungcheol.”

“They’ll do what they have to—to ensure the rest survive.” Seungcheol looks uncomfortable, eyes dodging elsewhere, and Jihoon holds his tongue. “And you never know, maybe the CDC really is working on a cure, maybe they actually have found something—”

“They haven’t!” Jihoon snaps.

They both know the horror stories, few and far between though they are. They both seen the report a journalist unearthed about the only deliberate exposure experiments conducted by the CDC, and they all know in detail the disastrous outcome of those experiments. 

_It took those bitten weeks to develop symptoms,_ Jihoon reminds himself. _And they all turned anyway, regardless of the level of medical intervention they were subjected to. Everyone who gets bitten—turns._

Seungcheol’s expression softens, just a little. “It doesn’t matter, I’m gonna die anyway. I have to go.”

Jihoon shakes his head viciously. He wishes—more than anything in his goddamn life he wishes—that there were other options available to him. But desperation licks at his heels. He steps right into Seungcheol’s space and looks him square in the eye.

“If you leave—I’m gonna leave to. I’m gonna walk right out of the quarantine zone and I’m gonna walk right up to the first one of those things I see and I’m gonna let them bite me.” He’s a little pleased with how those words came out, sharp and logical, less emotional frenzy and more cease and desist letter.

He’s patting himself on the back when Seungcheol takes hold of him, firmly with his fingertips digging into the swell of both shoulders as he holds him still.

“Don’t _ever_ —ever fucking say that again!” Seungcheol demands, a layered, growling sound creeping into his voice, like an irate harmony. “I’m leaving so that you can be safe, so that you can _live_. Don’t use my love for you against me.”

Jihoon's heart slips sideways and lodges somewhere painful.

With great difficulty, he swallows against the lump in his throat. “I don’t have anyone else Seungcheol. I haven’t had anyone else but you for years. We had our whole life planned together, and it’s not fair—not fair that it should end like this,” A stray tear collects, and he swipes at his face. “You leave—I leave too.”

Seungcheol holds him with an intense look, sharp and steady, and Jihoon does his best to look determined. He can’t possibly be succeeding, but whatever he’s projecting is good enough to soften Seungcheol’s expression. 

All the anger drains out of him, and he slumps forward, pulling Jihoon into his arms and presses a long, gentle kiss to his forehead.

Jihoon holds on to him, relieved, “We’ll think of something.” He repeats, a little helplessly.

A light flickers through Seungcheol’s eyes like scotch, amber and complicated and aged, and he nods.

“Okay.”

* * *

****

**Now**

“Tiled bedroom?” The man asks, entering the room with his finger already in his tie. “That’s unusual.”

Jihoon shrugs, “Easier to clean,” then moves to quickly rid himself of his clothes, hoping the man will do the same.

The man does, and as soon as he’s naked and apparently ready to progress further, Jihoon reaches for the length of rope tucked between the bed and the bedside cabinet and _pulls_. A quiet click sounds from across the room—too quiet for the man to notice, but Jihoon knows what it heralds.

“Sorry about this,” He says, straightening up again. His eyes dart frantically over the man’s shoulder to where the closet door is creaking open. “Don’t take it personally. But he needs to eat.”

The man quirks an amused eyebrow at him, “Oh, are we role playing? Kinky.”

Jihoon doesn’t wait for him to figure it out that they’re most definitely not. He turns and sprints out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” The man yells after him.

Jihoon flips the lock and stands back, listening as the man’s voice increases in volume, as the door jerks and shudders with the force of him trying to open it.

“This isn’t funny you little shit. Open the door or I’m gonna—” A pause, then: a sharp sound of horror.

“Oh, god—Oh god!” Jihoon can hear the man choke out in panic as he twists the doorknob uselessly. There’s a soft clacking sound of chains for accompaniment, then a low, curling growl. “OPEN THE DOOR! OPEN THE DOOR! PLEASE! OPEN THE—ARGHHH”

Jihoon shudders when the screaming comes to an abrupt stop. There were times that he felt guilty for that, for the very unfairness of it all, but not for a long time.

He waits for thirty minutes—plenty of time to get his padded vest out of the closet, drop Seungcheol’s old football helmet over his head—then he returns to the door, twist the key and swings it open.

It looks like a slaughter house inside, bits of flesh and sticky blood on every visible surface; and in the centre of it all, Seungcheol, mouth, chin and throat streaked bloody. He looks savage, knawing at that man’s innards, but strangely accomplished.

Slowly, Jihoon enters the room, tip-toeing around slick redness that's splashed all over the floor.

There is nothing recognizable left of the man Jihoon lured here, just a bloody mess of meat chunks and sparkling white bone.

Oh….And his severed _head_ , which Seungcheol had tossed carelessly on Jihoon’s lovely new bedsheets.

“ _Cheollie_.” Jihoon scolds, hands on his hips. “What did I tell you about throwing your food around? Huh? Look what you did to my nice new bedsheets—I just bought these.”

Seungcheol, crouched over the carcass he’s been chewing on, looks up at him like a bewildered puppy. A bewildered _zombie_ puppy.

Jihoon tries to hold on to his point of irritation, but it lasts all of ten seconds against _that_ look.

“Aw.” Jihoon coos, smirking, “I can’t stay mad at _you.”_

Satisfied that he’s not in serious trouble, Seungcheol goes back to the tattered remnants of his dinner. It’s easier to collar him again when he’s mid-meal anyway, so Jihoon uses his distraction as an opportunity to re-attach his chain and sweep up the bony debris into a nice, neat, gory pile.

It doesn’t take long for Seungcheol to lose interest in what’s left of Jihoon’s gentleman caller, and soon enough he levers himself upright and shuffles closer to where Jihoon is stripping the bedsheets.

The chain halts him two meters from the foot of the bed, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to _reach_ for Jihoon.

Jihoon stops piling up the bed covers to stare at Seungcheol’s bloody outstretched hand—then quickly, but _gently_ , smacks it.

“Bad boy. I brought you dinner and now you’re looking for dessert too.” He tuts. “Shame on you Cheollie.”

Seungcheol has the decency to look guilty then. Well, maybe not _guilty_ exactly. Jihoon’s not sure what kind of expression he’s going for there, but he likes to think Seungcheol feels appropriately chastised anyway.

“Yeah, you should feel bad.” Jihoon pouts, watching as Seungcheol shuffles dejectedly back to his den.

* * *

There are precisely two heavy duty chains bolted to the walls in the apartment: one in the bedroom that Seungcheol installed himself as a precautionary measure, and one in the bathroom which Jihoon installed after it became apparent caring for his undead boyfriend was going to be a messy business.

It’s been a year since Seungcheol turned, or thereabouts, and they have established a routine of sorts. So much so, that Jihoon knows all the tricks and techniques to get Seungcheol into the bathtub once a week without drowning in the process. It’s still a tentative excursion of course; Jihoon still has to wear his protective head gear and Seungcheol his; but Jihoon had promised himself long ago that he would not allow Seungcheol to become one of _them_. He would not allow him to trudge about covered in blood and guts like the shambling masses outside the quarantine zones. He would preserve Seungcheol, as he remembered him.

Splash—splash—splash.

Jihoon laughs and gets up to retrieve the rubber duck from where Seungcheol’s boxed it out of the bathtub.

“Will you sit still!” He chides gently, returning to Seungcheol’s side where he’d been lathering his hair. “I need to do this, you’ve still got blood in your hair. Food goes in your mouth—not all over your face you know.”

He doesn’t imagine for a second that Seungcheol understands him, but he likes talking to him anyway. He likes the way Seungcheol looks at him like he's paying attention, whether he understands the words or not. He likes the way there are little snorty noises, and grumbles, that may not be coherent answers, but make him feel like he's having a conversation with him.

When Jihoon drops the rubber duck back into the water, Seungcheol immediately goes for it, trying to grasp it ineffectually with his gloved hands. After a few minutes of fruitless pawing, Seungcheol huffs and bats the duck away again.

Jihoon sighs and reaches up to unhook the nozzle attachment from the wall to rinse his hair. Seungcheol remains relatively still throughout this, even going so far is to shut his eyes as the water rushes down his face and through the grill of his muzzle. He’s quiet and still enough that Jihoon almost believes he enjoys this part, that there’s some sort of familiarity in it that has him obeying Jihoon’s gentle command to tip his head up.

Jihoon directs the spray of water over the front of the grill, washing the worst of the blood off Seungcheol’s face. Setting the shower head down, he grabs a toothbrush placed on the counter and carefully, _slowly_ , detaches the metal casing covering the mouthpiece.

Seungcheol’s eyes creak open then, and he stares at Jihoon through waterlogged lashes.

Jihoon waves the toothbrush into view, smiling. “Are you gonna be a good boy and let me brush your teeth?”

Seungcheol grunts and leans forward, butting his head against Jihoon’s clumsily.

It’s not the first time he’s done this, and if Jihoon were thinking less clearly, he’d be tempted to wind his fingers through Seungcheol’s hair and press his face to the muzzle. But despite their unusual arrangement, he knows if it weren’t for the old football helmet he’s wearing, Seungcheol would most likely have a solid chunk of his neck bitten off by now.

Jihoon sighs and rears back, then grasps the chain at the back of Seungcheol’s neck in a sure grip. “Now if I let you do that, there wouldn’t be anybody to fetch you dinner anymore.” He murmurs limply.

Carefully, he introduces the toothbrush and gets to work.

Seungcheol doesn’t bite the bristled head off this time. Jihoon’s choosing to see that as a good sign.

* * *

Before the so-called Zombie apocalypse, Jihoon had worked as a high school music teacher in Uijeongbu, supplementing his moderate teacher’s salary by offering private piano and guitar lessons on the side. Combined with Seungcheol’s salary, they had enough monthly income between them to rent out a modest two-bed apartment in one of the nicer high-rise towers in Seoul.

They could have rented somewhere larger for cheaper of course, had they moved _further_ away from the city centre—but they both valued convenience over luxury and whilst their apartment in Dasan-Dong had been unfairly closer to _Seungcheol’s_ work, Jihoon had been allowed to re-haul and soundproof the entire place for his private lessons. At the end of the day, it was a good compromise and a lovely home they’d built together.

Post Zombie apocalypse however, everything changed.

Now that Music school in Uijeongbu is derelict, situated outside the quarantine perimeter, and the influx of people migrating into the city means there aren’t enough teaching jobs to go around. It didn’t seem to matter the first few months; people were just trying to survive from day to day and nobody was battering down Jihoon’s door demanding rent and overdue electricity bills.

Then one day, it _did_ matter.

It was like a light switch flipping—on the whole _world_.

One moment people were running and screaming in the streets, wondering how life could possibly go on with so much death and destruction on their doorstep, then in the next everyone just got back to their lives, and Jihoon was answering the door to his presumed-dead Landlord and explaining why he couldn’t afford to pay rent that month.

After the military took control, it was like everyone had forgotten what happened, what was _still_ happening beyond the city walls.

 _Out of sight, out of mind_ —it seems. Except, not really. Not for Jihoon. Not with his Zombie boyfriend chained to the bedroom wall, the bloody bags he drags to the trash shoot at night, and the slowly growing pile of bills on the kitchen counter. 

He could have managed to scrape by with his private tutoring income if he could drum up the interest—but, sadly, nobody seemed to give a shit about music anymore. Or at least—they didn’t want to _pay_ for it.

So, 4 months after the apocalypse ended, an increasingly desperate Jihoon found himself working a dead-end job stocking shelves at a local grocery store.

Sixty-eight hours a week of arranging cans and packs of toilet roll into neat little pyramids was demeaning and completely against the labour laws directive on working hours. But when you were as totally financially fucked over as Jihoon, you learn never to turn down an offer of overtime.

It’s the only way he could keep his apartment.

 _Their_ apartment.

 _Their_ _home_. 

* * *

Jihoon’s having his lunch in the breakroom one day, when Seungkwan comes breezing in, stops by the table, and gives Jihoon a long, speculative stare as if he's never seen him before in his life.

“Good morning Jihoonie. How did your date go the other day?”

“Which one?” Jihoon answers, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes. 

Seungkwan raises a single sceptical brow. “You’ve been on more than one date this week?”

Jihoon tries to mask his unease with a sip of coffee, but Seungkwan’s still watching him expectantly when he sets his mug down. He’s clearly expecting an answer to that.

“I’ve multiple friends trying to set me up on dates Boo, I can’t be expected to keep a track of each one.” Jihoon tells him, trying to sound causal.

Seungkwan sighs and rolls his eyes. “I was referring to the cute guy who was chatting you up at the check-out counter last week. The one who gave you his _number_?”

“Oh yeah, _him_.” Jihoon says grimly. He manages to pull his face into an approximation of regret. “It was pretty…. _gruesome_. I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again. Ever.”

Seungkwan regards him with a confused frown, “How many dates does that make this month?”

“What business is it of yours?” Jihoon counters snidely.

Seungkwan folds his arms across his chest and stares him down. Extra seriously. Jihoon thinks he busts out the extra serious face on purpose whenever Jihoon's trying to be evasive. He always makes him feel bad about not living up to other people's standards.

Little does he know….

“Jihoon,” Seungkwan sounds as weary as Jihoon feels. “I’m worried about you. We all are in fact. Me, Jisoo, Seokmin—we’ve been talking and we all agree that things are getting worse. You’ve become more distant than ever.”

Jihoon resists the urge to roll his eyes because _of course_ they’re all worried—they’re all under the illusion that Jihoon’s life is a fucking cesspool of shitty sex with strangers and other miserable assorted moments.

“I’m fine.” Jihoon says primly.

Seungkwan gives him a mildly pitying look. “I don’t think you are. It’s been over a year.”

“And I’m _fine_.” Jihoon presses impatiently. He can see a rambling speech on the horizon, which is one of the few downsides of having friends that care. They never leave you alone when you need it the most.

“Jihoon, listen—I know it’s hard, I know Seungcheol was special, but—” He stops, does an awkward little face scrunch like he’s measuring his words, and then plows ahead anyway. “You need to let him go.”

“It’s so easy for you to say that.” Jihoon says, dryly, like there isn’t something pricking behind his eyes. He lurches to his feet unsteadily, pushing past Seungkwan to dump his mug in the sink. “You didn’t lose anyone Seungkwan, you don’t understand.”

Seungkwan huffs a disbelieving laugh, forehead folding. “Hey—that’s not fair. Seungcheol was my friend too.”

With a bravado, and frankly a nastiness, he doesn’t feel, Jihoon spits back, “He was my _boyfriend_. Of ten years. We had our whole lives planned out together. If you think I can just forget him and move on, you’re a worst friend than I thought you were,” before storming out.

He feels guilty about it five hours later, walking home from work, and calls Seungkwan to apologise.

“It’s okay, Jihoonie. I know you didn’t mean it, and I probably shouldn’t have cornered you about it like that. I know how hard this last year has been on you, and I just wanted you to know I’m here for you. You don’t have to keep all this stuff bottled in—you can share it with someone.”

“I wish I could. I wish it were that easy, but—” he stops, because there's really no good way to finish that. 

It doesn't even seem to matter to anyone any more that the undead being lined up and shot were people. Not just people, but someone's loved ones. People who cared, people who laughed and went out and watched TV and kissed.

No one understands what he’s going through.

“Listen—” Seungkwan begins hesitantly. “There’s this _guy_ I’ve been wanting to introduce you to.”

Jihoon rolls his eyes and shifts the phone to his other ear. Of course, Seungkwan’s already lined up some new guy for him to date.

“I’ll stop you right there Seungkwan. You know my rule—I don’t date people who are friends with my friends. It makes everything so much more awkward after the inevitable break-up.” Jihoon lies, because it’s not so much the awkwardness he’s trying to avoid, but those inevitable questions when said date goes _missing_.

“Well, actually I don’t really know him at all.” Seungkwan counters, sounding sheepish. “I _was_ friendly with his boyfriend Mingyu, but I’d only ever met the guy a handful of times, and I just happened to bump into him a few weeks ago. Mingyu’s been missing since the outbreak started and I guess he’s finally accepted that he’s not coming back. I figured you two would have a lot in common—you’ve both been through the same thing essentially.”

“I dunno Boo—” Jihoon says, holding the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he passes a man in military fatigues on the sidewalk. The man slows down, and his gaze flicks up the length of Jihoon's body, appreciative and more than a little lewd.

Jihoon scurries ahead quickly, reminding himself: _non-military._

“Aw, c’mon Jihoonie.” Seungkwan whines. “He doesn’t really _have_ anyone. His parents passed away years ago and now that he’s lost his boyfriend too, he’s pretty much isolated himself from everyone. Vernon and I are worried he might do something drastic one day, get himself or someone _else_ hurt. Even if you turn out not to be interested in him _that_ way—it might be good for you guys to talk. Share the load, help each other heal. From what I remember of the guy before, he was really charming.”

“Hmm.” Jihoon grunts, because so far Seungkwan’s doing a terrible job of selling this guy. _Charming_ , Jihoon had found from unfortunate personal experiences, is almost always synonymous with _asshole_.

 _“_ Oh, and did I mention he’s a _doctor.”_ Seungkwan sing-songs, like that matters in some way.

“Is that supposed to _sway_ me?” Jihoon asks him dryly.

Seungkwan sighs. “I _thought_ it might. Once upon a time people would have been falling over themselves to nab a doctor. I guess these days nobody cares what your job is as long as you have a heartbeat.”

Jihoon flounders with indecision. On one hand, it sounds like this guy ticks all of his boxes: he’s lonely, depressed, and slowly but surely losing the will to live. On the other hand, he’s lonely, depressed, and slowly but surely losing the will to live— _because he lost his boyfriend._

Jihoon can sympathise with that, more than a little bit.

In the end, the decision comes to him easier than he expected; he’s not going to lose out on this opportunity because he feels sorry for the guy.

“Okay, I’ll give him a shot.” He sighs.

“Great!” Seungkwan chirps, manic grin audible even through the phone. “I’ll forward you his number—his name is Jeon Wonwoo.”

* * *

Jihoon often finds himself wondering, in those quiet, dark moments of honesty, what Seungcheol would think of him now. Of what he’s doing to keep him alive. No, that’s not that right word. _Around_.

Of what he’s doing to keep him around.

He’d probably be mortified. Shocked, disappointed—and a little sympathetic too. Because that was Seungcheol for you; even when faced with the worst of what the world has to offer, he’d always try and see it from another point of view. He always tried to see the best in people, tried to nurture the good.

He always was, and possibly always will be the sweetest, kindest, most loving man Jihoon had ever known. The kind of guy who climbed out of his car to help little old ladies cross the street, while Jihoon huffed in the passenger seat; the guy who was always picked to train the Rookies in his precinct because he had a kind, mellow demeanour and a patience which had always seemed infinitely deep.

It was a blessing they ended up together, and completely down to Seungcheol’s effort that they _stayed_ together. Through their ups and downs, he’d always been the more loving, demonstrative one; the first to say ‘I love you’, the first to say ‘I’m sorry’, while Jihoon, despite his best efforts, had maintained the emotional sensitivity of a scalpel.

Jihoon knows he was lucky to have him. _So fucking lucky._

He doesn’t think he told Seungcheol that enough, which is his biggest regret. There’s so many things he feels he should have said, but never thought to, until it was too late.

* * *

On the night of his date with Wonwoo, Jihoon rushes home from work, knocks back a few caffeine pills, showers and grabs something out of his closet.

“Now, you behave while I’m away, _okay_.” He calls out to Seungcheol, examining his reflection in the mirror.

Usually, Seungcheol watches him dress for his dates—sometimes from the door to his closet den, sometimes from the middle of the room, standing as close as the chain will allow. Tonight however, he makes no attempt to venture out—even when Jihoon taps on the closet door enticingly to attract his attention.

If Jihoon didn’t know better, he might think Seungcheol is _sulking_.

Like he doesn’t want Jihoon to leave.

Jihoon gives that fanciful thought the attention it deserves and promptly dismisses it. There’s no point trying to imbue Seungcheol with emotions he doesn’t have anymore—it’s just wishful thinking on his part.

“I’m gonna bring you back something special to eat. A treat, because you’ve been so good. How does that sound puppy?” He says, grabbing Seungcheol’s gun from the bedside cabinet and checking the magazine.

He has no hesitation at all about arming himself for a date, even if he hopes to never need it. Almost everyone and their mother are carrying these days, and he feels safer having a small reminder of Seungcheol with him, tucked close to his hip.

When it’s time to leave and Seungcheol has yet to make an appearance, Jihoon steps over to the door and raps it with his knuckles twice in quick succession.

“I’m going now Cheollie. Aren’t you going to wish me good luck?”

There is a sound from the closet. A huff, or something like it. Not human, but incredibly petulant, nonetheless.

Honestly, undead or not, Jihoon is _this_ close to believing Seungcheol is in fact sulking.

* * *

He meets Wonwoo at a small restaurant, one near his metro station, a completely innocuous beginning.

There is nothing to suggest that Wonwoo is a well-to-do doctor from his appearance, even if Jihoon knew what to look for to confirm it. He wears a stretched-out brown cardigan with holes in the elbows and an air of resignation. Jihoon would have pegged him for a high school teacher, maybe chemistry or physics, with a class full of students incapable of understanding thermal loading.

But appearance isn’t important here, because despite what Seungkwan, the waiter and perhaps even Wonwoo thinks, this isn’t a date.

This is grocery shopping.

“So,” Jihoon begins once they’ve placed their orders. He rests his chin on one hand and tilts his head to the side, “Seungkwan tells me you’re a doctor at SNU?”

“Surgeon, actually.” Wonwoo murmurs, all hectic colour in his cheeks and frighteningly invasive eyes. “Trauma Surgeon.”

Jihoon ratchets his grin up a notch, “Wow, a surgeon. That’s really fascinating. This past year must have been quite a unique experience in the theatre for—"

“I’d really rather we didn’t discuss my work.” Wonwoo interjects, looking uncomfortable. He pulls off his glasses and uses the corner of his napkin to wipe the lens. “It’s not really an appropriate topic for the dinner table.”

“Oh.” Jihoon swallows thickly. It’s going to be a long ass boring date, he can see that already. “Of course, yeah.”

Jihoon, in an attempt to play along and alleviate the awkwardness that has descended in so quickly, tries to make small talk about all the things he’s thinking about lately. The music playing in the background is a lovely piece he’s intimately familiar with: Mendelssohn’s _Lied Ohne Wrote._ It was the first piece he mastered for his departmental recital back when he was an undergraduate pianist. He tells Wonwoo as much, sharing with him a pleasant memory of his past. 

Wonwoo frowns thoughtfully while he’s talking, and Jihoon thinks he’s making progress. Then he opens his mouth and says, “How interesting,” as if he thinks it’s anything but.

Jihoon feels the other man’s indifference settle in his stomach like a challenge.

He gives it another try as the waiter arrives with their meals. He talks animatedly about a documentary he’d watched the other day about bees, the latest book he’d read by Murakami that was supposed to be ‘life changing’ but turned out to be ‘lacklustre’, and a hilarious conversation he’d overheard on the bus. 

When, by the end of their meal, Wonwoo’s face still looks impassive and he doesn’t have anything to add, Jihoon admits defeat.

“Look,” He sighs, dropping his napkin in the table. “This clearly isn’t something you’re interested in, and frankly I’d rather not waste—”

“Would you like to come back to mine?” Wonwoo interjects quickly, fumbling with his napkin.

Jihoon lets his mouth fall open. He hadn’t really been expecting that.

“Uhm,” he stutters, and then, with more nerve than he thought he had, he changes tact. “How about we head back to mine instead? My place is closer after all.” He adds quickly, his mouth dry.

Wonwoo opens his mouth, then closes it again and adjusts his glasses. 

“I’d rather we go back to mine, if it’s all the same to you. My car is right outside, and I can drop you off after we—" He trails off, waving vaguely with his hand, as if he can’t even bring himself to say the word _fuck._

Jihoon’s stomach churns in anxiety as Wonwoo pre-empts any further debate by quickly motioning for the waiter to settle the bill.

He takes a moment to remind himself, _you knew this would happen—you can’t always expect them to come home with you—_ and chides himself for not being more persuasive.

There’s always the option of refusing Wonwoo’s offer, calling it a day. It’s not like Seungcheol needs to eat right now anyway; he’s already enjoyed two meals this month curtesy of Jihoon’s efforts. Jihoon had mostly been planning to offer Wonwoo as extra treat for good behaviour, and _yeah_ , annoyingly, Wonwoo’s changed that plan. But it doesn’t mean it can’t still _work_. Jihoon can still turn things around.

 _Maybe if I show him a good time tonight, I can convince him to come home with me another day—_ he thinks amending his evening’s plan on the fly. “Okay, sure.”

Which is pretty much how Jihoon finds himself following Wonwoo outside, half-dragged along by Wonwoo’s point of contact at his wrist. Jihoon’s heart thumps loud in his ears with his rising sense of panic at the thought of sleeping with another man for the first time in ten years.

The drive from the bar to Wonwoo’s apartment is long enough that Jihoon has time to regret getting in the car, which is the worst part. Wonwoo doesn’t even put any music on, or make any attempt to make small talk. Uneasy, Jihoon tries to keep track of the turns, and eventually, they make it into a fancy-looking neighbourhood, so far removed from the poverty crippling other parts of the city.

There's a cold, hard tension forming in the bottom of Jihoon's stomach. He ignores it. That kind of thing happens a lot these days. It doesn’t mean there’s anything he should worry about.

* * *

He’s right to worry, of course.

When they arrive at Wonwoo’s apartment, the smell lingering just outside the door puts Jihoon on high alert.

It’s a bad meat smell; a little sweet, a little sour; Jihoon tries to breathe through his mouth as the door swings open and it comes rolling out in nauseas waves.

It smells like _death_.

Wonwoo doesn’t seem to notice the stench, or perhaps he’s gone nose-blind from overexposure, which suggests any number of unpleasant things, but Jihoon still takes off his jacket at the other man’s request and accepts the glass of wine Wonwoo pours for him.

Even though he doesn’t recall Wonwoo _offering_ him a drink. Even though Wonwoo neglects to pour himself one and just sits there, waiting for Jihoon to drink his.

Jihoon wisely doesn’t. Instead, he sits awkwardly on the edge of this stranger’s couch, gripping his own wrist until his heart rate evens out.

A minute unfolds, and then another, then deciding he has to get the fuck out of here, Jihoon reaches for his wine glass and purposely knocks it over. 

“Oh, shit—” Jihoon jumps up quickly, scrabbling to upright the fallen wineglass, “I’m so sorry.”

Wonwoo’s on his feet too, pulling tissues out of a box and trying to catch the spill before it drips onto the carpet, “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” Jihoon grimaces, nudging the table surreptitiously so the wine does in fact spill over the side. “It’s red wine—it’s going to stain everything! Fuck, I’m so clumsy.”

“It’s fine—don’t worry about it. I’ll fetch a cloth,” Wonwoo says with false cheer and a tight, disingenuous smile

He retreats into the kitchen for a moment, then comes back with a damp cloth.

Jihoon steps aside to let him wipe at the stain blossoming on the cream carpet, and while Wonwoo’s back is turned, he quickly grabs the nearest item in range, a lampshade, and whacks him over the head with it.

Wonwoo goes down hard, knocking his head against the coffee table as he goes.

Standing over his unconscious body is one of those heart-in-the-throat moments that has become sickeningly familiar over the past few months, though Jihoon knows Wonwoo’s getting off easy compared to most.

 _Last time I take dating suggestions from Seungkwan_ —Jihoon thinks to himself. 

He hesitates a moment longer, then turns for the exit.

He’s halfway to the front door when he hears a sound down the corridor, a dull groan that jolts him to full alert.

He stops walking and _listens_.

It comes again, louder this time, a breathless meaningless noise, deep and rough, like it's being dragged over gravel.

Jihoon holds his breath as he turns back around, because he has enough experience to know what that is.

Slowly, he moves down the corridor, past the living area and towards the room at the far end.

And the smell. Oh god, the _smell_.

The bad scent hanging over the entire apartment like a shroud is strongest here—like a slaughterhouse in summer, a rank, coppery, rottenness that sticks to the back of Jihoon's throat.

A few feet away he can see a light shining from underneath the closed door, a shadow swaying back and forth. He can hear sounds further in. The brief, soft sounds of feet moving on carpet. The creak of wood—that _could_ be natural, but he's taking no chances. He unholsters his gun and holds it steady. When he sets his other hand on the doorknob, the noise comes again, _low_ —and this time it's definitely a moan.

Jihoon twists the lock with infinite care, and pushes the door open with the same.

There’s a man chained to the far wall. A stiff gaited thing with flat blank eyes, sunken cheeks, protruding cheekbones, chapped and peeling lips, that used to be a man in his mid-twenties. He’s tall and slow and quiet hovering in the corner, but he’s intent as soon as he sees Jihoon, as soon as he realises Jihoon's alive.

A sound escapes his throat, a soft, gurgling moan of mindless hunger.

The chain holding him rattles as he stumbles forward—looking like a fierce, starved vulture. But he barely has any strength left in him, so when the chain pulls taut, he collapses to the floor.

Jihoon lowers the gun slightly, forces himself to swallow past the smell of death hanging heavy in the air and moves forward a step.

Something occurs to him then, intimidating on the horizon.

_He was going to feed me to him._

_Jesus fucking Christ—I was dinner._

Jihoon side steps into the room, manoeuvring carefully around the un-dead thing trying to crawl towards him.

He has a fleeting, panicky thought: he should call the cops. As soon as he has it, Jihoon’s inner, sane, _intelligent_ thoughts take over, shoving that idea down with the force it deserves. That will likely cause mass hysteria, an increased patrol presence in the city and tougher quarantines that will make his own activities harder to pursue. It will also likely bring the wrong kind of attention to his own doorstep.

He aims the gun at the undead man’s head instead, fingers curled over the trigger and _squeezes_ —

“Please don’t hurt him!”

Jihoon freezes, throat locked with the beginning of a scream. He glances over his shoulder, levelling his gaze straight at Wonwoo who has appeared in the doorway. His finger aches with how much he wants to tighten up on the trigger, but he’s frozen in place, unmoving, as Wonwoo stumbles into the room, hand clutching his bleeding temple.

“Please—” Wonwoo’s breath makes a hitching noise over his shoulder, an aborted sob. “Please don’t. That’s—that’s my boyfriend.”

Jihoon hesitates, trying to decide whether to pull the trigger on principle, but in the end he can’t. Despite his apprehension, pity clogs his chest at Wonwoo’s admission.

Finally willing himself to move, he sidles past Wonwoo towards the door, gun raised, tongue set between his molars in a punishing clench.

“You were gonna feed me to him, weren’t you?”

Wonwoo’s expression crumples with guilt then, and he sinks down onto the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry—I was just so desperate.” He folds in on himself, skinny frame trembling. “I’m so sorry.” He insists, hoarse and miserable.

The chained man is still moaning, still making that wet rasping noise that sounds like he's trying to be breathing, or some messed up half-remembered version of it. It hurts to look at him, like watching an animal caught with its leg caught in a trap, gnawing at the limb. It hurt even more to look at Wonwoo, as if watching a train-wreck in slow motion.

_I felt the same once._

It’s difficult to put the gun away again, especially with the weight of an undead man’s eyes on him, but Jihoon manages. He tucks it back into his shoulder holster, and then comes right to the edge of his bed, crouching down beside Wonwoo.

“It’s okay.” He whispers, reaching out and squeezing the other man's shoulder as a show of support. “It’s hard to let go—I—I know the feeling.”

When Wonwoo looks up at him, it’s with a blatantly confused expression, and Jihoon is forced to elaborate.

“I have my boyfriend chained to my bedroom wall too.” He shrugs his shoulders awkwardly, “ _You_ were kind of supposed to be his dinner.”

At Wonwoo’s wide-eyed comical expression of shock, Jihoon almost laughs, but contains himself.

“S _urprise_!”

* * *

“We’ve been friends since high-school—potentially more if I hadn’t been so uptight back then. We drifted apart when I went to college, my fault really; he tried to stay in touch, but I always made excuses—I had work, I was too busy. I don’t know why he bothered trying half the time, I used to be so cold. Then I moved back here for a new job two years ago, and I didn’t know anyone—but he made space for me in his life. We got closer, then we finally got together. When the shit hit the fan, I was working back to back shifts in the medical centre and he drove all the way across town to keep an eye on me. I didn’t know he’d got bitten till we got back home, and by then it was too late. He was _already_ showing signs of infection.”

Wonwoo squeezes his hands together in his lap, one slow repetitive movement, but he doesn't offer anything else and Jihoon doesn't push.

He stares at Mingyu hovering in the corner, barely enough strength to hold himself up, and asks, “When did you last feed him?”

Wonwoo looks up, still wringing his hands together anxiously, “I—I haven’t been able to get him food in a while. Not since the last hospital I was working in upped their security. I relocated because I was _worried_ they were on to me.”

Jihoon really only gets one thing from that sentence.

“You were feeding him _patients_?”

Wonwoo makes a thin noise, shakes his head. “No, no—God no. I—I was smuggling body parts from the morgue. People who were already dead by non-sinister means. It worked for a while, but it never seemed to be _enough_.”

Jihoon wants to protest that it's not Wonwoo's fault. That he didn't cause this, probably couldn't have stopped this. But he doesn't, he just takes a breath, exhales roughly, and sinks to a crouch beside the bed.

“That’s because he needs fresh meat Wonwoo, at least once a month. Or else…he’ll start…. _decomposing_.”

“I’ve tried. Honestly,” Wonwoo says thickly, raking a hand through his dark hair so hard he has to have pulled some of it out. “I just couldn’t go through with it. That is—until tonight. You were the first person I was going to _….feed to him.”_

Jihoon thinks he should probably be a little outraged by that, but he can’t even summon up any irritation. He might have become a horrific, immoral monster since the apocalypse ended, but he’s no hypocrite.

“If it’s any consolation, it _will_ get easier. I’ve been doing this for a year, and I have good system going—I rotate the bars and clubs I visit so I don’t hit the same place more than once a month, and I pick guys nobody cares about or will notice missing.”

Wonwoo levels him a blank look. “Geeze— _thanks_.”

“Sorry—” Jihoon shrugs apologetically, “But Seungkwan told me you were super depressed and struggling to move on after your boyfriend went missing. I figured I was doing you a favour by putting you out of your misery.”

Wonwoo laughs, but it isn't a real laugh, it’s more a creepy, self-effacing chuckle that raises the hairs on the back of Jihoon's neck. 

“Uhm…Something funny?”

Wonwoo sighs and rubs his hands over his face. “No, I guess not. I just can’t help but think you’re right; you _would_ have been putting me out of my misery. You still _can_ —If you want to. I don’t really have much left to live for. Everyone’s moving on and—I can’t.”

Jihoon feels his chest tighten.

He’d felt much the same not long ago—so hopelessly alone and lost while everyone else got on with _living_. Without Seungcheol around to keep feeding, he wouldn’t have had any real motivation to go on breathing; he would probably end up jumping out his window, or hanging himself in his closet with an old belt.

“Tell you what. Cheollie’s not due for a feed again this month anyway, so if you want—I can help.”

Wonwoo’s expression is pensive in a way that says he’s not following Jihoon’s train of thought.

“What do you have in mind?”

“I was thinking I could head out to a club, pull a guy and bring him back here and get your hungry boyfriend some food.”

“What?” Wonwoo says faintly, looking at Jihoon like he's mad, because _really_ , offering to help out the guy who tried to make you a literal meal-ticket for his zombie boyfriend? That's not exactly the smartest choice to make.

“You’d—” Wonwoo’s brows knit together, and he makes an aborted, flappy movement with his hand that makes laughter bubble up in Jihoon's throat. “You’d _do_ that? You don’t even _know_ me. You don’t know _either_ of us.”

“But I _know_ what you’re going through.” Jihoon counters firmly. “I went through it too. Call it solidarity or some shit—but I’m ready to help.”

Wonwoo looks discomforted for long moment, long enough that Jihoon thinks he might actually refuse his offer.

Jihoon doesn’t blame him for having doubts; this can of worms, once opened….

Then Mingyu emits a pained groan from where he’s still slumped on the floor and a steely determination floods Wonwoo’s expression.

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Great. I know a dive not far from here that should have just what we’re looking for, but firsts things first—you need to do something about this _smell_ ,” Jihoon gags, moving over to a window and shoving it open.

The cool breeze that rushes in helps with the smell— _marginally_ , but Mingyu’s odour is still so overpowering it clings persistently to his nostrils. 

Jihoon moves over to the second, smaller window and shoves it open too. “The smells’ a dead giveaway dude—you need to take care of it or someone’s gonna know something’s up when they step through the door.”

Wonwoo’s determined look morphs into something offended. “He’s an animated corpse Jihoon. It’s not like I can give him a bath!”

Jihoon snorts messy laughter. “ _Sure_ _you can._ All you need is an old football helmet and a padded vest. Maybe invest in some boxing gloves so he doesn’t try and claw you while you’re shampooing his hair—then you should be good to go.”

Wonwoo sends him a level and yet somehow rather pointed look. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course, I am. Cheollie loves bath time. He still loves playing with his rubber ducks.”

* * *

It’s well after three in the morning when Jihoon finally makes it back to his apartment. He’d politely declined Wonwoo’s offer to drive him there in favour of walking, the dull pain of simply existing jolting to life with each clumsy step.

Padding into the bedroom, bare feet on the cool tiled floor, Jihoon finally feels the exhaustion kick in. He’s been running on adrenaline the entire night, heart beating off-rhythm, but finally, his body seems to realize he’s made it to the privacy of his own home, his own bed where he can sleep blissfully for a few hours before work tomorrow. 

Quickly stripping down, he climbs under the covers and pulls a large pillow up against his back for comfort.

He’s starting to drift off, eyes starting to take long, meandering blinks, collecting thirty seconds of sleep at a time, and he can feel himself on the cusp of the blissful edge of a larger unconsciousness when the closet door creaks open.

“I’m sorry Cheollie, tonight was a bit of a bust. No extra special treat for you today.”

There is only grumbling to answer him, pitched low.

Seungcheol sounds angry, and Jihoon sits up in bed, frowning, to find Seungcheol hovering at the foot of the bed, half hidden in the shadows.

He’s oddly still, compared to his usual restless self, but there's something forced about it, something contained. Though, Jihoon has to admit to himself, it's no weirder than any of Seungcheol's other quirks. The fact that he looks like he might rip someone into a pile of nerves and bone fragments if anyone so much as touches him, that's just par for the course.

“I’m sorry, okay.” Jihoon huffs, feeling a little sorry for himself. “Circumstances changed things. But I made a new friend, which is kind of what everyone’s been pestering me to do for the past year. So that’s a plus, right?”

Seungcheol grunts something hollow and shuffles back into the closet.

“I’ll try again tomorrow.” Jihoon whispers at his retreating form.

* * *

In the week following his first meeting with Wonwoo, Wonwoo manages to bag his own warm body for Mingyu to feed on. Caring for your Zombie boyfriend is a steep, and often disturbing, learning curve—but under Jihoon’s tutelage Wonwoo takes to the whole thing like a duck takes to water.

His efforts are quickly rewarded. Mingyu looks more like an actual person the next time Jihoon sees him; his face is starting to lose some of that hollowed-out look and the decomposition has receded entirely, except for a really persistent patch of skin on his forearm where he’d been originally bitten.

He’ll continue to improve with each meal—slowly, but he _will_ improve.

“He looks better already.” Jihoon say, nodding over at Mingyu.

Mingyu’s hovering in his corner, wearing the same puzzled expression Seungcheol gets like he doesn’t understand why Jihoon isn’t running towards him with open arms and allowing himself to be eaten alive.

“Yeah.” Wonwoo nods, shifting uncomfortably. “I still can’t believe it was that easy though. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, I was so worried someone would have heard it all and called the cops.”

“That’s what the sound proofing and heavy metal music is for. Besides, the cops are stretched too thin to investigate every domestic disturbance someone reports. Stick to the system and you should be fine.”

Wonwoo doesn’t quite give him the grin he’s after, but the grateful expression in his eyes is almost as good. “Yeah, I will. Thank you, Jihoon. I honestly don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”

* * *

Jihoon's not sure what time it is when he's dragged out of sleep. But it doesn't feel like he went to bed that long ago. It only takes him a second to realise what it is that woke him up. He immediately sighs into the pillow.

If this were the first time, he'd probably be more startled, or annoyed, or scared. He'd probably bother sitting up at the very least. But this isn't the first time. This isn't even the tenth time he's woken up to find Seungcheol just standing there, watching him sleep. So he just stays where he is, and hopes that his sprawled body demonstrates a little of his annoyance.

There's a long shape at the foot of his bed, mostly in shadow, but tall enough and real enough for Jihoon to recognise it as something other than a strange remnant from a nightmare.

“I know you were expecting food, but I couldn’t go through with it tonight.” Jihoon doesn't even bother to lift his head, he lets his voice mumble out at almost speaking volume, frustration and objection half muffled in the pillow. “The man had a family, two little kids waiting for him back at home. I found out late into the night, and by then it was too late to pick up someone else. I’ll get you food tomorrow.”

Seungcheol lets out a deep growl, half of which Jihoon doesn’t catch because he's already hauled the pillow over his head.

“Don’t—don’t look at me like that,” he says, miserable. His voice comes out embarrassingly wet. “I’m trying my best.”

Seungcheol exhales, frustration or impatience, then there’s just the sound of the chain skidding on the carpet. 

Jihoon waits for a beat, and then twists around to see if Seungcheol's gone. All he can see from this angle is the frame of the open doorway, and shadowed snatches of the closet beyond.

“Good night Cheollie. I’ll get you food tomorrow, okay.”

Jihoon unfolds the pillow from around his head, pushes his face back into it, and tries to reclaim whatever sleep the world thinks is due him. Which somehow never seems to be enough these days.

* * *

“What are those?” Jihoon asks, eyeing the bouquet of flowers Wonwoo’s holding behind his back.

“Oh, uhm—” Wonwoo fidgets, bringing the bouquet around and presenting it. “These are for you.”

“Flowers? Really?” Jihoon asks sceptically, accepting the bouquet that’s easily worth a week of his wages.

Wonwoo shrugs in an attempt at off-handed nonchalance, although the gesture looks forced.

“You know I’m not _actually_ interested in you, right?” Jihoon says, and cringes internally at the way his voice gets just a bit higher when he sounds incredulous.

Wonwoo pulls a face at him, something dishevelled and mocking.

“I didn’t want to visit empty handed—that would be rude. Besides, Seungkwan keeps pestering me about how things are going between us, so I asked him to help me pick these out for you, hoping it would shut him up for a while.”

Jihoon laughs, turning the bouquet in his hands, musing, “That’s actually not a bad idea. If Seungkwan thinks we’re really hitting it off, maybe he’ll stop sticking his nose into our business.”

Wonwoo nods sagely, “Precisely.”

Jihoon invites him into the kitchen and lets Wonwoo pour them some wine, while he roots through the cupboards for a suitable vase. While it’s the first time Wonwoo’s been to his place, they _have_ been meeting regularly over the last few months to trade tips and advice on caring for their undead boyfriends.

As friendships go, theirs is extremely unconventional—but Jihoon is grateful for it. He finally has someone he can talk to about all this shit, someone who _understands_ , and had they met under different circumstances, Jihoon is certain they would have been good friends anyway.

“Do you wanna meet Cheollie?” Jihoon asks Wonwoo after dinner.

Wonwoo eyeballs him like Jihoon suggested they swallow razor blades together. Though, to be fair, introducing someone to your undead zombie boyfriend can potentially have the same gruesome consequences. 

“In the non-life ending way, I mean.” Jihoon quickly adds, trying to smile reassuringly. “He’s safely chained and in a relatively good mood, and _honestly_ , I don’t have anyone else I can introduce him too. He might be dead, but I still want him to have a social life; he used to be the sweetest, friendliest guy when he was alive.”

Wonwoo laughs—the first real, honest laugh Jihoon has heard out of him and nods. “Sure. Why not. I've shown you my Zombie Boyfriend, the least I could do is say Hello to yours.”

Jihoon smiles back and leans him down the corridor towards the bedroom.

As Seungcheol is a nocturnal creature these days, he takes to barricading himself inside his den during the day unless he’s supplied the proper motivation. Thankfully, all it takes to rouse his interest today is a sharp knock on the door and Jihoon’s voice calling out to him.

“Cheollie? Come out and say hello. We have a visitor.”

There’s a quiet groan from the closet in response, then soon enough, Seungcheol emerges from his den, cloudy eyed and clumsy footed, hair sticking up in all directions.

“Hey sleepy head,” Jihoon coos, and if he's grinning a mile wide, Wonwoo is good enough not to mention it. “ _Cheollie_ , this is my new friend Wonwoo. Wonwoo—this is Seungcheol. Or Cheol for—"

Jihoon forgot how fucking fast a well-fed zombie can _move_ , because the second Seungcheol sets his sights on their guest, he charges forward with alarming speed.

“Woah,” Wonwoo breathes in surprise as Seungcheol tries to swipe at him.

He doesn’t get very far when the collar around his neck hauls him back, but all the muscles in his body are tensed like a pulled bow string, suggesting he’s far from giving up yet.

“H-hey big fella,” Wonwoo stammers, holding up a placating hand. “ _Easy_.”

“Sorry,” Jihoon frowns, sparing a quick glance at the heavy-duty bolt keeping Seungcheol at bay. It creaks ominously under the pressure of Seungcheol continued exertions but, thankfully, holds fast.

“You’ll have to excuse him Wonwoo, I guess he’s not used to meeting strangers he’s not allowed to eat. He must be due a feed soon.” Jihoon explains, though he knows that’s not _exactly_ true. 

Usually, when Jihoon is at home, interacting with him, Seungcheol is pretty docile. Except for a few notable occasions at the beginning, he rarely snarls or attempts to paw at Jihoon when he’s in range.

If Jihoon’s moving about the room, he’ll track his movements and shuffle as close as the chain will allow, but he’s never actively _hurled_ himself in Jihoon’s direction.

Jihoon’s learned from anecdotal evidence that it doesn’t always go that way. Seungcheol, as an infected and a member of the living dead to boot, should have been prone to displays of animal aggression round the clock.

Seungcheol never has before, but apparently all it takes is a strange new face for him to flip.

“He’s remarkably well…. preserved.” Wonwoo observes, strangely relaxed even with Seungcheol snapping his teeth inches from his face. “Except for the cloudiness in the eyes, and the fact that he’s trying to eat my face off, you wouldn’t be able to tell from first glance that he’s…..” He stops, as if he can't, or as if he refuses to finish that sentence.

Jihoon hears the word anyway.

“ _Dead_?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo nods slowly, staring Seungcheol up and down. “He looks better than most _living_ people I know. There aren’t even any signs of decomposition.”

“Hmm. Well, I _have_ been taking very good care of him. Haven’t I puppy?”

Seungcheol abruptly stops growling to blink wide, vacant eyes at Jihoon in a _‘Oh, I forgot you were here’_ sort of way. The chain clinks where it drags on the floor as he moves to one side and tries to shuffle towards Jihoon. Not so much to grab him it seems, but just to get closer. He chuffs quietly when Jihoon remains out of reach.

“He _knows_ you.” Wonwoo breathes in surprise.

“Of course, he knows me.” Jihoon giggles. “I bring him dinner.”

Wonwoo's silence sounds awed, though he doesn't say anything for almost a minute.

“But—he _shouldn’t_. He shouldn’t be able to recognise you at all. Accessing your memories requires subconscious brain activity, firing of neurons and transmission of electrical impulses and that can’t happen when you’re dead.”

Jihoon frowns as he considers Wonwoo’s words. The implications are….unsettling.

“Well—he must have _some_ brain activity if he’s moving around and eating. _Right_?”

Wonwoo shakes his head, the space between his eyes slowly disappearing in a furrow the longer he studies Seungcheol.

“The way he’s looking at you though, I could swear he’s—” Wonwoo trails off, edging towards Seungcheol, trying to meet the man's blankly, staring eyes.

It’s turns out to be a step _too_ close.

Seungcheol, who has been letting off a more or less continuous low growl since their introduction, now lurches forward with shocking speed.

Jihoon reaches for Wonwoo’s arm and drags him out of range _just_ in time.

“Woah there,” Jihoon laughs, allowing a shaky sigh to escape. “Don’t get too close. I figured _that_ went without saying.”

Wonwoo retreats a good distance, his gait hasty enough that Jihoon can tell he’s rattled by his encounter with Seungcheol. “You were standing just as close as I was, but he didn’t even _try_ and lunge for you. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“He’s never really _tried_ to lunge for me.” Jihoon murmurs, watching as the tension eases from Seungcheol’s shoulders. He’s calmer now that Wonwoo’s stepped away, though the growling doesn’t cease, “I guess he must know if he eats me, he won’t have anyone else to bring him food.” He shrugs.

“No, no—this is something different.” Wonwoo murmurs thoughtfully. He’s still a little shaken, but something in the way he says that makes Jihoon think he's put all the pieces he needs together.

* * *

In the months that follow, there's an endless stream of ‘dates’, a tumble of incidents both gruesome and triumphant.

It's a strange way to live a life, he supposes, but Seungcheol needs him.

Jihoon’s come this far and there’s no going back.

Even if it's probably going to get him killed one day. 

* * *

The man at the end of the bar had seemed incredibly interested in Jihoon from afar, but now that Jihoon has stopped by to chat, he’s acting _weird_. Cagey.

He’d been eyeing Jihoon for forty minutes, at least, while they both sat on opposite ends of the bar, both seemingly watching the same game, and when Jihoon floats into his space, to get the ball rolling, the other man immediately offers him a drink.

Jihoon thanks him but indicates with a tilt of the glass tumbler he’s still holding that he’s still working on his own. The man seems inordinately annoyed by that—which is _usually_ an immediate red flag in Jihoon’s book—though, foolishly, he finds himself staying to chat anyway. He doesn’t know why he chooses to dismiss the warning signs that the guy’s a control freak, but it might have something to do with the breadth of the man’s shoulders and the shade of his hair, the sharp angle of his jaw in profile that reminds Jihoon so painfully of Seungcheol.

“Great game, huh?” Jihoon offers after a quiet moment.

The man shrugs at him, as if Jihoon is quite possibly mentally ill and is humouring him. The conversation doesn’t really improve from there, despite Jihoon’s best efforts. He still invites the guy back to his apartment of course. Even if he isn’t totally charmed with the way the guy runs hot and cold in short order, the man had been obvious enough with his appreciation of Jihoon’s appearance, even if he seems disinclined to chat.

Some men, Jihoon knows, are only interested in one thing.

* * *

This proves prescient when they finally get back to Jihoon’s apartment. The front door has barely closed when the guy manhandles Jihoon into the bedroom, and then _shoves_ him roughly towards the bed.

"Get naked. Grab the headboard," he grates out, whipping off his tie.

Jihoon forces down the cold lump of fear that threatens to choke him, because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go at all. The man’s moving _way_ too fast for comfort. They’re in Jihoon’s apartment, Jihoon’s bedroom— _Jihoon_ should be the one calling the shots here, not the other way round.

“Can we just—slow things down a little?” Jihoon says, trying to edge slowly towards the door.

He almost makes it—that is until the man blocks his exit with his intimidatingly wide frame and closes the door. Then locks it.

“Why’d you the lock the door?” Jihoon asks, playing for time. He’s careful with his tone, tries to keep it harmless and scared—not too hard when terror is the front-runner in his stable of emotions at the moment.

The man sneers at him, and his expression chills the air in Jihoon’s lungs. 

He’s bigger than Jihoon, in every way possible, and he has more strength than Jihoon's expecting. Between one second and the next, Jihoon finds himself sprawled awkwardly on the bed, barely remembering the journey down.

The man’s face is a blurry shape looming over him, so close that Jihoon has to blink the stars from his eyes and go a little cross-eyed to bring his face back into focus and see the smirk that he knows he’ll find there.

“I know your type,” The man says, holding on just a little too tightly, fingers pushing in a little too sharply. All weight and greed and the rough drag of stubble against Jihoon's jaw. “I know what you want.”

“Get—off!” Jihoon grits out, trying to wriggle out from under the man’s bulk.

He doesn’t get far before a hand closes over his throat.

Jihoon’s eyes widen, and he claws at the man’s face desperately, trying to gasp out a name. Trying to call for _help_. But the man’s already wrapping his tie around Jihoon's throat, cutting off the oxygen supply.

"What’s the matter," he says. Jihoon struggles to breathe. “Changed your mind already? Too bad.”

Try as he might, Jihoon can’t summon the strength to push the man off, to scream, to twist away. Each tight swallow just leaves him even more painfully out of breath as the corners of his vision fade. The rest of the word turns to air, a cough, or something close to it, soft and already breaking. He's no doctor, but he knows what that means, he knows what's going to happen. He still thinks—can't help thinking—disjointed, confused thoughts. He thinks it should hurt more than this, but instead it's just hard to breathe now, strangely cold.

Grasping desperately for the rope at the edge of the bed, Jihoon uses what little strength he has left to tug it. A hand clamps around his arm before too long and pins it flat to the mattress, stalling his efforts.

He can’t tell if he’s succeeded, if he’s yanked the rope hard enough to release Seungcheol’s chain. He doesn’t have enough time left to find out either, so with his free hand he fumbles desperately for anything within reach on the bedside table.

There’s a heavy photo frame just within reach of his fingertips and he grabs it, manages to smash it across the other man’s face in one last feeble effort.

Shards of glass and dust scatter down, and the man staggers backwards, swaying, falling, mouth running blood.

Jihoon immediately claws at the tie wrapped around his neck with numb fingers, tugging it free. The sudden rush of oxygen flooding his brain doesn’t help his disorientation much. If anything, it makes everything— _his fear_ —suddenly more vivid.

The man—the man who's trying to kill/rape/choke him to death—staggers to his feet, coughing, smashed face streaked with blood, teeth red.

"Fucking, bitch!" The man seethes, spitting blood out of his mouth. "Forget taking it easy on you. I'm going to have your mouth and your ass and everything else you've--”

Then suddenly a pale hand grasps the man's throat from behind, tightens, makes his eyes flare wide. He's dragged back, out of Jihoon's vision, and now Jihoon can't see anything but the ceiling.

Jihoon can't see what's happening, but he can hear noises, gruesome, rough, gasping, helpless.

He scoots to the edge of the bed and lurches to his feet, unevenly.

Instinct is telling him to make a run for the door, to get the fuck out of there before Seungcheol’s attention shifts to him, and yet, foolishly, he can’t resist glancing backwards.

The man he’d brought home tonight is already dead; his mangled, ripped-apart throat is just as gruesome as Jihoon would have expected it to be, and Seungcheol—

_Oh shit._

Seungcheol is just standing there, staring straight at him.

There’s blood smeared across his mouth, and when he bares his teeth in a low growl it drips from his teeth.

“Oh—god,” Jihoon’s heart kicks with fear.

Twisting towards the door again, he scrambles with the handle only to find it locked, and worse than that—the key is missing. The realization hits him hard, and he feels tears leak out of his eyes as he drops his hand back down and pounds it against the floor in futile frustration.

The door is locked.

That fucker must have pocketed the key when he….

Seungcheol give a wordless cry of rage from behind him and then there’s the muted clink of chains as he steps closer.

Panic rushes all through Jihoon, the worst of his life, a cacophony in his ears. He’s stumbling over to the far side of the bed before he can think, searching every available surface for a knife, or a gun, or something to defend himself with. Though he's fairly sure that nothing he finds will be good enough.

Seungcheol’s hot on his heels, dragging the bed frame away from the wall so he can’t hide behind it anymore. The room's too small, the window to his left is boarded up and Jihoon’s too afraid to look away from Seungcheol for long enough to wrench at the boards. He knows he’s been officially cornered when his back hits the wall, and Seungcheol looms like a heavy shadow in his space, eyes glazed and intent in a way that promises pain.

Jihoon flattens himself against the wall as Seungcheol stumbles forward, willing himself to go quiet and still.

_Don’t panic. Don’t act like living prey._

At times during this past year, Jihoon has woken up with his heart pistoning in his chest like a runaway machine, the bile-taste of terror in the back of his throat, all the ways things could go wrong darting through his head. He never truly believed any of it would happen.

"..N-oh," he manages, it's barely a breath, before Seungcheol is crowding him against the wall and leaning in and…..

And….

_…..Nuzzling him??_

Jihoon freezes, his heart thumping uneasily in his chest. 

A minute bleeds into two, and he’s still alive. Still breathing but standing frozen as Seungcheol nudges their heads together awkwardly in some weird attempt at… _affection_?

Jihoon lets out a shaky breath as Seungcheol groans quietly into the bend of his neck. There's a slow, unhurried trail of fingers making their way across his back, tracing over his skin. They stray to the back of his neck, pushing up under his hair. There's familiarity in the touch, it feels like it belongs. There's a possessive, indulgent warmth to it, an intimacy. Jihoon hasn't been touched like that for a long time, and that's what eventually pushes him into opening his eyes and lifting his head to look at Seungcheol. 

There’s no heat coming off him, no rush of warmth as he exhales against Jihoon’s face. But if Jihoon ignores the clouded gaze, the discoloured tinges under his skin, ignores how different he smells, looking Seungcheol in the eyes is _exactly_ the same as it used to be.

It’s _still_ him.

“Cheol?”

Seungcheol grunts softly as his hands curve over Jihoon’s hips, tentative pressure that Jihoon isn’t sure he likes or is terrified of. But when Seungcheol leans a little closer to rest his nose against Jihoon’s hair, it’s familiar and comforting enough to make something in Jihoon break.

His shoulders, so tense a moment before, begin to shake with the force of a hundred sobs trying to break lose all at once. He buries his face in Seungcheol's throat, doesn't care that he's smearing a dead man’s blood into his hair, and across the side of his face. Trembling, he lifts his hands to Seungcheol’s biceps, squeezes, and—

“Oh God, Cheol….” he begins, voice splintering, tears spilling down his cheeks, “I’ve missed you so much.”

* * *

What happens after is pretty much a one-sided conversation, but it’s better than one-sided screaming and one-sided eating.

Seungcheol doesn't have that dead stillness anymore. Lying on the bed next to him, Jihoon can feel the minute movements of his body – toes wiggling, chest rising and falling, he can even hear Seungcheol's eyelids fluttering, he thinks, lashes almost brushing the side of Jihoon's neck.

Seungcheol's not warm exactly, but he’s not dead cold either; his body gives off a strange, restless energy like it remembers how to be alive but not quite managing it.

Jihoon probably shouldn't be allowing his guard to drop so completely, considering he’s within biting range of his zombie boyfriend, but hell, it's been so long since Jihoon’s had this he doesn’t care anymore. He can’t _help_ the way his voice cracks as he speaks. 

“I never slept with any of them you know. None of them. I wasn’t even interested, I just did what I had to—to keep you _here_. I just wanted you to know that."

Seungcheol tightens the arm he has thrown round Jihoon’s waist and pulls him closer, and for a moment, Jihoon thinks Seungcheol might just eat him after all. Instead, he nuzzles into Jihoon’s neck with what is so obviously affection that it's painful. Painful, and sweet.

“I love you so much Cheollie.” Jihoon murmurs, feeling his heart miss two beats before it begins slowing back to normal. “I _still_ love you.”

Seungcheol groans quietly in response. His voice is dry, like dead leaves breaking apart underfoot, but somehow still overflowing with warmth.

_It’s still him._

Jihoon smiles up at Seungcheol, can’t resist laying his head on his chest and listening for a heartbeat he knows he won’t find. Before, whenever he had an anxious moment, there was nothing more comforting than resting his head on Seungcheol’s chest just like this and being lulled to sleep by the sound of Seungcheol’s steady, familiar heartbeat.

There’s nothing to hear now, of course, but it’s still comforting to—

_Thock—thock_

Jihoon jerks his head back in surprise because that—

That’s not possible.

His gaze immediately flies to Seungcheol’s face, finds Seungcheol watching him with a serene sort of quiet he hasn’t seen on his face in over a _year_.

Gingerly, Jihoon lowers his head again, presses his ear flat against Seungcheol’s chest and _listens_.

There’s nothing there this time, as expected. He probably just imagined the heartbeat, or even confused it for the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears. That makes more sense.

_Of course, he doesn’t have a heartbeat you idiot. He’s dead._

_You’re just tired, it’s been a long day._

Jihoon rubs tiredness out of his eyes and draws in a slow breath. He has work in the morning, and about 4 hours of sleep before that. But there’s still a dead man lying in the middle of their bedroom floor, spilling blood and entrails all over the place.

It’s seems like such a waste to just _leave_ him there.

“Are you going to eat that?” He asks, gesturing at body.

Seungcheol stares at the body with what appears to be genuine surprise, like he’d forgotten he was mid-meal when he decided some surprise spooning was in order.

Amazingly, he refuses to actually _eat_ it until Jihoon leaves the room, like he doesn't want Jihoon to see it get messy.

Honestly, he's like some kind of polite, gentleman zombie.

* * *

Wonwoo pushes the book awkwardly across the table. Then frowns, as if he's not entirely happy about it.

“The very hungry caterpillar?” Jihoon asks, more than a little confused.

“Yeah.”

Jihoon lifts his eyes from the book laid out on the table between them to level Wonwoo a flat look. “Not exactly the sort of reading material I usual go for in my spare time. No offence Wonwoo. I’m sure it’s a riveting read.”

“It’s not _for_ you. It’s for _Seungcheol_.” Wonwoo says, slowly, purposefully, as if that matters in some way.

Jihoon quirks an eyebrow and reaches for the book. He flips through the pages, full of overly bright and cheery illustrations. “Is it an edible book? Cause let me tell you now, there’s only one way this book is going down well with Cheollie and that’s if he can eat it. Or rip it to pieces. Or play with it in a bathtub.”

“No, no. You should _read_ it to him.” Wonwoo interjects impatiently.

Jihoon stops flipping through the book to blink at him. “What?”

Wonwoo bites on his lower lip. He looks like he is searching for something to say that might make sense.

“I’ve been reading to Mingyu a lot recently. Just easy stuff, kid’s books mostly.” Is what he comes up with. Then: “He’s responding really well to it. Like, _astonishingly_ well.”

“In what way?” Jihoon asks. He can’t completely help the scepticism that smudges his voice

“I think the words, as simplistic as they are, are getting through to him. I know it sounds crazy, but he sits and listens, grunts back every now and then so he knows what words are at the very least. We're working our way up from 'knowing what words are,' to 'making them ourself.”

Jihoon ignores the way it surprises him, the way it makes something clench in his chest. Something like hope.

Wonwoo must see a different expression on his face, because he sighs and reaches for the book, “I knew you wouldn’t believe me—”

“I do actually.” Jihoon interjects, clutching the edge of the book before Wonwoo can take it.

He pulls it back towards himself, surprising Wonwoo, and offers a shaky smile instead of explaining his reasons. “I’ll—I’ll give it a shot. Thanks Wonu.”

* * *

When Jihoon gets back to the apartment, Seungcheol’s already emerged from his den and prowling the room. He huffs at Jihoon as soon as he sees him and jerks at his chain, silently demanding Jihoon loosen it.

Since he’s begun demonstrating a higher level of restraint, Jihoon feels guilty about chaining him up every time he leaves for work. But until things improve— _considerably_ —Jihoon doesn’t think it’s safe to let like him roam about the apartment untethered. Seungcheol might not submit to that primitive drive to feed when he’s with Jihoon, but the same can’t be said for anyone else he happens across.

_If he got free—_

Jihoon shudders to think of the consequences.

Thankfully, Seungcheol doesn’t seem to object too strenuously to his confinement, and as soon as Jihoon loosens his chain he’s stumbling into Jihoon’s space and doing that nuzzling thing again. Which, honestly—Jihoon’s never going to get tired of that.

“Hey big guy.” He giggles. “You miss me?”

Seungcheol shoves his face into Jihoon’s neck, and huffs a sigh at him. It’s not quite a ‘ _yes’_ but it does sound a little pleased, so Jihoon pats him on the head for it.

“Come Cheollie, I have something for you.”

Seungcheol makes what Jihoon decides is an agreeable noise into his hoodie, because he clearly thinks the _something_ involves food.

Jihoon pushes at Seungcheol's chest, and it's like trying to push rock, until Seungcheol relents with a grunt, and sways backwards.

“Before you get too excited, I should warn you—It’s not food.” Jihoon tells him, leading him towards the bed.

Taking a seat, he reaches for the blocky, colourful book Wonwoo gave him, holding it up for Seungcheol to see. “It’s a book. I’m going to read it to you.”

Seungcheol's staring in the general vicinity of the book, but it’s not a _happy_ stare. It’s a half-broody half-betrayed, ‘I can’t eat that!’ stare of terrible disappointment.

“Aw, don’t be sad Cheollie.” Jihoon coos, flipping the first page of the book open, “Wonwoo thinks it might help you re-develop your cognitive functions, so it’s worth a shot. Don’t ya think?”

Seungcheol grunts something angry and indecipherable, but he’s still staring at the book instead of attacking it, which is _something_ —Jihoon likes to think it's a good something.

Jihoon clears his throat and begins reading aloud, _“The very hungry caterpillar.”_

No sooner has he read out the title that Seungcheol has turned away and started shuffling back to his den, clearly uninterested.

“Ah—hey, Cheollie!” Jihoon laughs, watching Seungcheol’s slow retreat. “Okay, okay— _fine_. How about this: the very hungry _zombie_?”

Seungcheol stops dead in the doorway, then, very slowly, turns to face him. His eyes are pale, unseeing, but there is a flicker of something in them. Interest, surprise, warmth or some combination of them.

Jihoon’s sure that little deviation off-script has caught his attention, so he continues reading, twisting the story as he goes.

_“In the light of the moon, a little zombie lay in his den. One Sunday morning the warm sun came up and—pop!—out of the den came a tiny and very hungry Zombie. He started to look for some food—”_

Jihoon stops reading when the bed _dips_ and Seungcheol slumps down into the space next to him. He glances up to find Seungcheol watching him with a weirdly open expression.

Seriously, his whole face is relaxed in a way that almost looks happy. 

“Should I keep going?” Jihoon asks.

Seungcheol makes a low, urgent noise in his throat.

It sounds like _yes_.

**FIN**


End file.
